Blogpost: How we met
by Avath
Summary: 20-something year old John Watson has decided after the repeated requests of his blog readers to tell the story of how he met his boyfriend and consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Would it surprise you if you found out they met at a club?


[Thursday 12/01/2013 20:46]

Hello!

I've been asked a few times how I met Sherlock so I thought I would type it up and tell you. If this is uninteresting to you, I can tell you we've just finished a case that I'm going to write up in the next week so you can come back to read that then.

It was a few years ago now. I was still a medical student and honestly I was a bit unsure who I wanted to date. With that I mean I didn't know if I wanted to date men or women. I understand now that the lines aren't always that clear. Of course now I want to date Sherlock and that's it, but back then I was very confused.

We met at a club. I know it sounds shocking but that's how it happened. I won't say which one because we still go there sometimes (shocking again) and it allows us to be a little bit private. I love you readers but sometimes I just want to snog my boyfriend without people looking at us.

Anyway. I was standing waiting for Mike (Stamford) and drinking a cola when this man started walking up to me. He had a way about him. Honestly, it was almost predatory. There was no question he was coming over to me. His body seemed so confident but there was something in his face that made me think he hadn't done that sort of thing often. It was like he was assessing my reaction and prepared to turn tail and run at any moment. God, he was gorgeous though. It was dark in there but still his eyes shone and his hair... You know his hair. It's a lethal weapon. It was the first time I laid my eyes on Sherlock and it took my breath away. And I'm not entirely sure I've gotten it back since to be honest haha.

He was dressed in a suit which was so out of place in there but it worked on him. I don't want to sound like a "romance novel" but his body was just gorgeous. Tall and thin. His legs seemed to go on forever. I was instantly attracted to him. And I hadn't even seen his arse at that point.

Sorry, maybe that was inappropriate.

He didn't say a word and neither did I. We just started to dance. I'm not a big dancer and at that time I was still having trouble with my stiff leg. But we danced for what must have been at least two hours. It wasn't dirty dancing. We barely even touched. Really, we were just dancing near each other. We didn't even speak. And now that I think about it, I don't know what happened to Mike that night. Did he come? I don't know.

I'm not one of those men that find sweat very sexy, but when Sherlock's curls started to get damp I knew I wanted to take him home. I told him that. Those were my first words to him. Not very romantic. "I want to take you home," I yelled over the music. He nodded and suddenly I was so nervous I had to have a wee. I told him to wait and that I'd be right back, then I went.

When I came back, he wasn't there anymore. I waited for an hour before I had to accept that he'd dumped me. It was a long tube ride home. I didn't even know his name. It was awful. The following days I thought about him a lot and I was embarrassed I'd asked someone like him to go home with someone like me. Not that I'm unattractive but he's something else, isn't he? Anyway, I decided on Friday that I'd go out to the same place on Saturday. I could hardly sleep that night and the day dragged on.

I got there at almost precisely 22:00 and got another cola but I never ended up drinking it. Sherlock found me again and grabbed me so hard that I thought he'd tripped or something. But he pulled me out to the dance floor and we danced again. That time it was different though. I was feeling a bit braver because he'd sought me out so I put my hands on his waist and he put his hands on my arms. After a bit he started to look frustrated and I started thinking I'd done something wrong, but just as I was about to ask he pushed me into a corner of the club and we danced there. It wasn't exactly a hotel room but it felt more private. We exchanged a few kisses, but again it wasn't dirty.

That time I wasn't the first to speak. "Take me home, John," he said to me. It was the first time I'd heard his voice and I had to curl my toes in my shoes so I didn't snog him right there and then. "How do you know my name?" I asked him but he only smirked at me in response. For some reason him knowing wasn't creepy. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said instead and then he kissed me. I think I repeated his name to him without really being aware of it. "I'll take you home," I told him and then I said I had to use the bathroom because my flat was a bit of a ride out.

And when I came back he was gone again.

Are you sensing a pattern? The git had left me again.

I've never told Sherlock this but I cried on the tube ride home (can you imagine how he'd carry on if he knew I had?). I was so bloody disappointed. It wasn't a sex thing. I just wanted to know more about him than just his name and that he could dance for hours on end and make me feel like the only person in the world. I was really miserable. I started blowing air on the window and writing his name in the steam. I wished I'd asked for his phone number or just SOMETHING.

And then I realised I had his name. Sherlock Holmes isn't exactly a common name. As soon as I got home I got on my laptop and Googled it, and I found his website. I spent the rest of the night reading it and wondering what the hell he'd deduced about me. It was a bit frightening because I'm ordinarily a little private (apart from these blog posts. I feel anonymous writing here even though I know I'm not).

From his website, I had his phone number and I also knew which hospital he would do his work in. St Bart's. Which I am very familiar with. How we'd missed each other in the corridors, I really don't know. Maybe he saw me there but didn't say anything. That really pisses me off to think about. The absolute arse. He knew exactly who I was and where to find me and he did nothing to make contact. He left it all to me. I also found out from his website that the first weekend I'd seen him, he'd been called away on a "case for the Yard". Like it was nothing. I was deeply impressed. And now it's a common occurrence in my life, too.

Now that I think about it, maybe it was a test. The fact that he didn't contact me, I mean. To see if I was clever enough to find him or something. It took me a few days to work up the nerve to go down to the labs where he might be. The first time I went, he wasn't there. I'd gotten myself so worked up beforehand that I was a mess after. It took three cups of tea before I'd calmed myself down. It must have been a Tuesday when I went the first time. The second time I went to look for him was a Friday. That time I found him.

I stood in the doorway, looking at him. He was sitting there (wearing a suit again, posh git) and doing something with rather colourful fluids and something I identified as a foot. "Hello," I said I'd stared my fill and plucked up the courage to speak. He looked up at me for a few seconds and then looked back down at the foot. "Hello, John," he said. He was being so casual that I thought I'd made an awful mistake. But then he waved me over and said, "Tell me if there's something wrong with the proximal bones of this foot." And I told him there was, because there was.

I ended up staying and he filled me in on what he was doing. We didn't talk about how we'd spent two nights dancing with each other and he'd blown me off twice. We talked about the case. I helped as best I could, but mostly it was him being brilliant and me telling him he was. I caught him smiling a few times.

When it was getting far too late and my stomach was complaining because I hadn't had dinner, I got up and put my jacket on. He stopped me in the doorway and said three words that are forever etched in my mind.

"Take me home."

I almost punched him. "Are you serious?" I asked him giving him a look that hopefully turned some part of his soul into ice.

"You want me to apologise," he said to me with amusement and it was so endearing that I suddenly didn't want him to apologise and I wasn't angry anymore. I took his hand before I told him I would take him home. I didn't let go until he was safely in the four walls of my flat. Then we had the best sex I've ever had.

Sorry. Was that inappropriate? Living with Sherlock has made me a bit desensitised.

In the middle of the night he got a call from Scotland Yard asking him to come help on a case. I came with. I've typed up that story, but for those who haven't read it; it ended up in a mad chase through the London streets that I didn't know my leg was capable with. I haven't had a problem with limping or stiffness in it since.

By the end of the month I'd given up my flat and I was moving in with him. Next week we'll have been together three years and I've learned he'll always come back to me.

John


End file.
